


Bad and wrong but love don't get any better

by Neyiea



Series: You're still my favourite taboo [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Humiliation, Jerome is besotted but he's still a very bad guy, M/M, Name-Calling, POV Alternating, Pet Names, Possessive Behavior, Spit Kink, The duality of man states that Jerome can call Bruce both a 'good boy' and a 'slut', Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Relationships, With equal amounts of affection, a hint of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28843047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: Bruce has been trying so hard to lose himself; in crowds, in drinking, in dancing, in Tommy.Jerome finds him.
Relationships: Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne, Thomas Elliot/Bruce Wayne
Series: You're still my favourite taboo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2124822
Comments: 38
Kudos: 147





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amvris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amvris/gifts).



> For Luna!!! ily
> 
> Title from Irresistible by Temposhark
> 
> Personally I think the selfish and obscene vibes of this are off the charts, so I'm pretty happy with it lol. Hope you enjoy.

The air is thick with sweet perfume and the sharp burn of strong liquor, the lights are dim, and the music is loud. The club is a disorienting space, where for all you know anyone brushing up behind you could either be a good friend or a total stranger.

Bruce could lose himself in here.

And that’s what he wants the most, at this point in his life. To be lost.

The faces of the people around him are always shifting from one night to the next. There are few constants in his life, now, but he likes it. The change. He wants to try new things. He wants to learn things about himself that he never gave himself the opportunity to figure out. He wants to know what it feels like to forget that there’s blood on his hands. He wants to forget that he’s such a disappointment. 

He bumps into a girl and she turns, smiling. Her skin shimmers in the light, like some kind of gemstone, and Bruce is tipsy enough that he gets caught up in looking for so long that it’s obvious his eyes have lingered.

“Sorry,” he murmurs after a moment, trying to figure out how to say ‘I like your skin’ without sounding like a serial killer. “You’re very shiny, it’s nice.”

Her smiles widens further.

“Aww, that’s so sweet of you to say,” she says in a tone of voice that he’s slowly becoming familiar with from overhearing it so often. Drunk girls in bathrooms complimenting each other’s outfits and reminding each other not to text their exes, holding long hair and rubbing backs and making promises to find a bottle of water as one of them was sick. Bruce wishes he had someone like that with him, but Tommy wasn’t exactly the coddling type even after he’d been drinking. “Body glitter, baby.” She leans in closer to be heard over the music. “Do you want some? A little swipe on those nice cheekbones of yours and you’d be set.”

“I wish I were wearing something lighter.” Even now he tended towards sweaters that covered him up completely, as if he were actually attempting to be modest. “Then I could experiment with more.”

She looks him over, lips briefly pursing before something playful sparks in her eyes.

“Hey. Wanna try something new?”

“Always,” he answers, nearly breathless with honesty.

And that’s how he ends up getting smuggled into the ladies’ restroom to swap shirts and get smeared in body glitter. 

He exits in a strappy, bright red top that has a low neckline and almost no back. It’s new, different, exciting. If Alfred saw him like this—

Bruce shakes the rest of that thought away. There are still lingering traces of a mottled bruise on his face, rendered almost completely invisible under the dim, shifting lights of the dance floor, and Alfred isn’t going to see him like this. Alfred isn’t going to see him ever again. 

A hand rests against his lower back as the girl settles beside him, looking absolutely delighted to be wearing his cashmere sweater.

“I feel like I got the better deal out of this, I was getting so cold, and this is _so_ soft,” she tells him through happy giggling. “You do look great, though. Very shiny.” Her hand drifts up from his back to reach into his hair, ruffling his curls just-so. Bruce almost leans into the touch, he’s so starved for the unthinking affection of the gesture. “And red’s a good colour on you. You got any friends around here to keep you company? It’d be a shame for a boy like you to be all alone.”

“I’ll find them sooner or later.”

“Do you want any help?”

Bruce pauses for a moment, suddenly, overwhelmingly touched at the idea that a stranger would offer him any sort of assistance. 

“No, but thank you.”

She drifts away with wink and a call of, “Have fun,” before disappearing into the dancing crowd just like so many of the people who Bruce has fleeting interactions with nowadays, who he either never sees again or forgets about entirely. 

And then Bruce starts losing himself once more. He drinks, and he dances, and occasionally someone will run a hand down his arm, or up his back. Brief, flighty touches that never linger the way that he’d like them to.

Tommy finds him after Bruce has downed two more drinks since they’d last parted ways, and he grins and says something that Bruce can’t make out over the music. The words never matter as much as the actions, though, because Tommy gets really close really quick. Bruce loops his arms around Tommy’s shoulders—somehow always the first one to reach out, always the first one to initiate the touches that weren’t overtly sexual—ready for another night of grinding up against the boy who he’d once punched with his father’s watch wrapped around his knuckles until he bled. It had felt like justice, back then.

He has a brief, flickering thought of punching another boy until he bled and bled and laughed and laughed. That had felt like justice, too.

Bruce’s stomach twists uncomfortably. There was blood on his hands, now. He’d held himself back, back then with Jerome. He’d made a promise, and he’d broken it. He doesn’t want to think about that. Not anymore. Not ever. 

Tommy is close, and warm, and his hands are toying with the shirt’s little bow tied at Bruce’s back. His thigh is, very unsubtly, nudging between Bruce’s legs. Bruce leans further into him, waiting, always waiting, for Tommy to get the gist and give him a kiss but, as per usual, Tommy never seems to figure it out. Either that or he thought that kissing was somehow off limits while frantic, mutual hand jobs and blow jobs were absolutely fine. It seems like some kind of _crime_ that Tommy’s sucked Bruce off but has still never bothered to let their lips brush together in the slightest. 

Bruce is about to close the remaining gap between them all by himself; he deserves kisses, he wants kisses, and if Tommy still isn’t willing to give them to him freely then Bruce will have to get them from someone else. 

He momentarily freezes, though, at the feeling of a finger trailing up his exposed back, right along the line of his spine. It’s not Tommy’s, because Tommy’s hands are bare and whoever is touching him is wearing gloves. It isn’t entirely unusual for someone to intrude into his space even while he and Tommy are obviously dancing together, but it’s usually much less subtle than this. A chest pressing against his back, a chin hooking over his shoulder, another thigh slipping in between his legs from behind.

The finger stretches upwards, and then the entire palm settles against the back of his neck before the hand begins to slide up, up, into his hair, lingering in the way that Bruce had wanted so badly. The stranger behind him ruffles his curls, playful, before their fingers twist into the strands in a way that makes Bruce’s heart start to race.

And then Bruce feels something cold and metallic press against his skin. The barrel of a gun. 

He freezes again. The person behind him says nothing, but the way they tug on his hair pointedly is telling enough.

“I need to grab another drink,” he says to Tommy, hoping that he’s not so abrupt that he’ll find it suspicious. “Don’t get too lonely without me.” 

Tommy, definitely drunker than Bruce is at this point of the night, doesn’t seem to find it odd. The hand in Bruce’s hair unwinds and pets a slow trail down his neck, as if praising him for his quick-thinking and compliance, before fisting into the back of his shirt. Bruce’s thoughts, clearer now with anxiety driving away the pleasant haze of the evening, cannot seem to disregard the fact that if it weren’t for the gun he’d be enjoying this. 

The hand tugs on him pointedly and Bruce backs away. The crowd begins to surge into the space that he had once occupied, and behind him the stranger shifts, forcing him into a turn but keeping out of sight and leading him towards—

Not one of the exits for him to be spirited away in the night to be ransomed, or any dark corners where Bruce could be threatened for his wallet or car keys, but towards the edge of the bar where a large man seems to be standing guard. Underneath his coat is the faintest hint of—

Bruce’s breath catches.

—of black and white stripes. An Arkham uniform. 

“Ah.” A familiar voice drawls from behind him. “Starting to figure it out, are you?” Lips barely graze against his ear and Bruce shivers, cold with dread but warm with something else as Jerome’s hand slides up the back of his neck to idly toy with his hair again. “Carl! Keep your coat done up,” Jerome snarls when they’re within earshot of the large man, who quickly fumbles with the zipper of his coat in order to keep the telling stripes out of sight. Bruce is guided into the space behind him, into the furthest corner of the bar.

Trapped and almost completely out of sight. 

“Now then.” The almost-playful tone is back, and Jerome finally starts stepping around him. “Let me make sure that—” The hand drags out of Bruce’s hair to grip tightly at his jaw as Jerome comes to stand directly in front of him. “—my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me.”

Bruce stares at him, as defiant as he can manage even though several factors are working against him at the moment. His inebriated state, his swapped shirt, the fine specks of golden body glitter that he’d happily lathered onto himself forty minutes ago. He doesn’t seem like much of a threat, right now.

Still, he stares into Jerome’s eyes without allowing himself to waver, and slowly but surely a smile breaks out across Jerome’s heavily scarred mouth.

“It really is you,” he says, and the tightness of his grip lessens somewhat. “My, my, Brucie boy.” His gaze slowly treks down Bruce’s body before rising back up, and Bruce fights the strange urge to cross his arms in an attempt to cover himself. Jerome’s eyes are practically glinting with mischief by the time they lock with Bruce’s again. “Red suits you.” His smile widens, unsettling. “I bet you’re so pretty when you bleed.”

“Jerome,” he greets flatly. Showing any fear in this situation would only backfire on him. “How did you know I’d be here?”

Jerome scoffs and rolls his eyes, fingers digging into Bruce again, hard enough to ache.

“Not everything I do is because of you, Bruce,” Jerome tells him, and even though Bruce feels like that’s a pretty obvious lie, considering what had happened the last time that they’d crossed paths, he’s not nearly as in-control of the situation as he would like to be in order to start mouthing off. “It’s difficult to say, what with my year and a half of the long-sleep, but I think my body is finally of _legal age_ to get wasted now, so here I came to have a good time with a few close buddies. You just happened to be here too, naughty boy.” Jerome lets go of his jaw and lightly smacks his cheek. His words and slap are more flippant than outright hurtful, but Bruce still feels a flickering of shame which he immediately tries to stamp down. It wouldn’t do him any good to let himself feel unhappy over being called ‘naughty boy’, of all things. Besides, he’s been called much worse. He _is_ much worse. He’s become something that even Jerome, so in tune with the hidden darkness of others, would be shocked by. “I bet your fake ID is absolutely top-notch.” 

Bruce doesn’t own a fake ID, he just tips the bartenders up front enough that they’ll know he can pay off any cops who might come around asking who’d been serving to teenagers. 

“You broke out of Arkham to celebrate your birthday?” If he can keep Jerome talking, then maybe this night won’t end in bloodshed and tears. It’s unlikely, to be sure, but one could always hope.

“Not exactly. Y’see, it was always going to happen, my great escape.” Jerome lifts the hand holding the gun and gestures for Bruce to step closer, and he seems pleased when Bruce does so without putting up a fight. “It’s so boring, being locked away somewhere, even if I get to play King of the Crazies.”

“You need more enrichment for your enclosure,” Bruce mutters under his breath. Jerome overhears him and barks out a sharp laugh, winding an arm around Bruce’s shoulders and all but forcing him onto the barstool that’s closest to the wall.

“I think what I really need is to not be enclosed at all, actually.” Jerome settles into the stool beside him. His gun, still casually pointed in Bruce’s direction, is in full view of the bartender behind the counter who does absolutely nothing about it.

Even more dread begins to coil inside of Bruce.

Jerome and however many of his Arkham escapee buddies had been able to get past the bouncer, and Jerome himself had actually stepped onto the dance floor without inciting mass hysteria. Just how many of Jerome’s followers were in the club, whether they’d broken out of Arkham with him or had never been there at all? Was this like the place that Bruce had stumbled upon while searching for Matches Malone, and it was full to the brim with people who saw him and recognized him and remembered how close Jerome had come to publicly executing him?

Had the girl he’d met, who’d seemed so nice as she laughingly stripped out of her shirt when Bruce had respectfully turned his back, also known who he was, and that Jerome was here? This place didn’t exactly seem like the sort of scene where his cult followers would want to congregate, but Bruce couldn’t be sure, now, whether or not there had been eyes on him all night, watching him and keeping track of him even though he was trying so hard to lose himself in the crowd. 

His shoulders fold, arms crossing over himself, a familiar kind of anger igniting inside of his chest.

A drink is slid in front of him, the same one that he’d been ordering all night, and he lifts his face up to glare at the bartender who is smiling unpleasantly down at him.

“I’ll have a bottle of water, unopened. Thanks.”

A gloved hand reaches out, and Bruce doesn’t turn to watch as Jerome lifts the glass to his own mouth, downing it in one go. 

“Shit. They really do make drinks that taste like fruit punch, huh?” 

“Is there a reason why you brought me over here?” Bruce would rather be aware of the gritty details than leave anything up to chance. “Planning on killing me yet again?”

“Oh, always,” Jerome replies with ease. “Y’know, just the other day I was writing in my diary about how I’d love to slather you in honey and watch you get eaten alive by beetles.” 

Bruce’s stomach twists. “How inventive of you.”

“You know me, Bruce, I wouldn’t dare let your end be mundane, not after our special shared history.” From the corner of his eye Bruce can see that Jerome has leant onto the counter, his chin propped up with his free hand. “But I’ve gotta say, when I saw you in this flimsy little scrap of fabric getting ready to ride some pretty-boy’s thigh like a common drunk tramp I was less interested in figuring out how to kill you and more interested in figuring out what happened to turn you into such a disappointment to your poor, dead parents.”

Rage and stupidly genuine hurt flare up inside of Bruce, even though Jerome’s opinion should be absolutely worthless to him, and Bruce whips around on the stool, hand immediately rising up. Jerome catches his wrist before Bruce can backhand him across his smirking face, and Bruce grits his teeth and simmers in his own self-loathing, because if he wasn’t four drinks in he knows that he’d have been coordinated enough to hit Jerome before he could even think to try and stop him. 

Jerome’s hand grips his wrist hard enough that Bruce is sure that his bones have begun to grind together, and he yanks Bruce closer. Close enough that Bruce has fleeting thoughts of the night the lights went out, and the way that Jerome had leaned in to whisper into his ear, ‘But your point is still valid.’

“Not a disappointment to me, though,” Jerome says, as if Bruce cares, evidently pleased that Bruce had some fight left in him. “Did I hit a sore spot? Sorry ‘bout that.” His eyes scan over Bruce eagerly, and slowly they settle on something that makes his smile begin to fade. 

It’s brighter, now that they’re seated at the bar. And now that Bruce has turned to look at him he can see the mottled remanence of bruising on Bruce’s face. 

His expression jumps strangely, and he actually lets go of Bruce’s wrist to reach up to his face. Bruce flinches away from the slight touch of his fingertips and Jerome’s mouth purses into a thin line, which is even more strange of an appearance on him now that the corners of his lips are eternally extended upwards. 

“Someone got the drop on you, huh? I ought to kill them for it. Only I’m allowed—”

Only I’m allowed to hurt you, he probably means to say, but Bruce doesn’t give him the chance to finish.

Knowing that he’s not coordinated or fast enough right now to attack Jerome with his clenching fists he does the first thing he can think of.

He spits right in Jerome’s face.

Jerome reels back the moment that Bruce’s saliva wetly splatters against the scarred extension of his grin. His eyes are wide, the most surprised that Bruce has ever seen him look, and Bruce takes a moment to bask in the feeling of having done something so unexpected that he’d thrown Jerome off, even if it would only be for a moment.

Then Jerome’s mouth twitches, and his eyes glint, and his gaze on Bruce seems to become more intent than before. His tongue slides out of the corner of his mouth and he actually laps Bruce’s spit off of his face. 

Bruce watches him, that strange mixture of cold and warm stirring up inside of him again.

“I can’t believe you missed my open mouth, Bruce. Does the pretty little baby have _zero aim?_ ”

“You’re disgusting,” Bruce grits out, stomach flipping. He starts to stand, sensing that somewhere along the line he had just done something very, very foolish, but Jerome is quick to leap up after him, grabbing onto Bruce and backing him up against the bar. 

“You’re the one who spit on me, Bruce. You’re pretty gross, too.” Jerome closes the scant distance between them and Bruce leans away as far as he can, arcing his back over the counter to earn himself at least a few extra inches of personal space, heart starting to hammer inside of his chest. “Downright awful, even. It’s only fair that I get to retaliate,” he sing-songs, a hand reaching up to tightly grip Bruce’s jaw again. This time, though, he presses hard against the hinges, until Bruce’s mouth is forced open.

Bruce trembles, heart racing in alarm, stomach twisting sickly. His hands come up to grab at Jerome’s wrist as Jerome looms over him with a smirk, slotting one thigh between his legs and pressing closer than they’ve ever been. Even the first time that they’d met, when Jerome had hoisted Bruce into his arms as if he weighed nothing and brought him up to the stage, they hadn’t been this intimately situated. Bruce feels himself breaking out into goosebumps at both the nearness and the sudden anxiety, because not only is Jerome hovering over him with a glinting smile that proves he’s having fun driving Bruce into a state of panic, but they’re absolutely not alone. Even if there’s a wall on one side and Jerome’s giant lackey on the other keeping them mostly blocked off from view, even if the bartender for this part of the bar is busy covering other patrons, if someone looked hard enough right now they’d see Bruce pinned by Jerome with his mouth open and his legs spread.

Something nameless sparks inside of him, and he clenches his eyes shut.

“Hey.” Jerome’s grip becomes painful, but the thigh that he’s slid between Bruce’s legs is brushing right against his soft dick and Bruce has to choke down a whimper. His toes curl in his shoes as he fights to keep from grinding up against Jerome—who’s practically been touching him ever since he approached Bruce on the dance floor—the way he’d been grinding against Tommy—who never ever seemed to touch him enough or initiate the kinds of touches that Bruce wanted the most. “None of that.” There's a soft tap, the sound of Jerome setting down his gun. “If you close your eyes I’ll just make it worse for you, Bruce.”

Hesitant, furious, Bruce allows his eyes to flutter partway open.

“There you are,” Jerome coos at him in mocking-adoration. “What a good boy.”

Sudden heat flares in Bruce’s blood just as Jerome spits directly into his mouth.

Bruce chokes and gags. Jerome cradles the back of his head with one hand while the one that had held Bruce’s mouth open now seals over it, all while gently shushing him.

“C’mon, it’s not so bad,” Jerome says lowly. “It’s just like French kissing, except without any lips or tongue.”

Bruce, breaths hitching and chest tight for more than one reason which he definitely doesn’t want to think too hard about, digs his teeth into Jerome’s palm until he tastes blood.

Jerome curses under his breath, wrenching his hand back, but he tightly grips Bruce’s curls with his other fist in order to keep him in place. The man acting as a lookout shifts besides them, alerted by Jerome’s pained cussing, but Jerome quickly orders him not to interfere. 

“You’re a vicious little thing, aren’t you?” Jerome asks, likely rhetorical considering their history. “You’ve got blood all over your mouth again.” His leg shifts between Bruce’s, as if he’s actively trying to make Bruce’s blood run hot. If he doesn’t stop moving Bruce really is going to start grinding against him, even though Jerome is gross and wants to kill him and is absolutely not someone who Bruce should want any kind of intimacy from. 

“I’ve been told that red is my colour,” Bruce manages, and Jerome laughs softly, as if Bruce had just told him something pleasantly amusing.

His hand, damp with blood, drags up Bruce’s face to clasp his cheek. It feels oddly tender, and Bruce hates how much he likes it. No one else ever seemed to touch him the way that he wanted to be touched, it was unfortunate that Jerome appeared to be a natural when it came to the sort of thing that could make Bruce’s knees weak. 

“It really does suit you,” Jerome murmurs, eyes flicking from Bruce’s eyes to his mouth and back up again. “You know, Bruce, I do like pretty little things like you, but I like dangerous things even more.” The space between them becomes nonexistent and Bruce is—

_Thrilled. Revolted. Astonished. Excited._

—to feel the firm outline of Jerome’s dick against him. 

“Guess I really lucked out that you’re the best of both worlds, huh?” Jerome finishes lowly before ducking down and sealing their lips together. 

Bruce freezes, thoughts scattering in a million different directions as Jerome huffs against him, nipping and licking at Bruce’s lips in a way that send sparks down Bruce’s spine and makes the heat in his blood reach a boiling point. His breath hitches, fingers twitching restlessly as he fights the urge to dig them into red hair, and Jerome’s fist in his curls loosens, petting at him in that same way that had almost felt praising when Bruce had obediently retreated from the dance floor. 

And then he melts.

He’s been wanting kisses so badly, lately. 

His hands lift up to dig into Jerome’s hair and his mouth falls open. Jerome makes a muted sound against his mouth, delighted surprise, as if he’d been expecting another fight instead of Bruce giving in, and his hips hitch against Bruce hard enough that he sways against the counter.

Bruce feels his own blood run south as he rocks against Jerome’s thigh, thick and hard and just right exactly where it is.

“Fuck.” Jerome pulls back to break the kiss, but he hovers close, staring at Bruce with eyes that are almost black. “You’ve really turned into a little slut, haven’t you?”

Mortification, humiliation, dread coil inside of Bruce, but now that he’s started he can’t seem to stop rolling his hips against Jerome. His heart races and his hands twist in Jerome’s hair, a soft whine building up in the back of his throat.

Jerome’s eyelashes flutter and he leans in to breathe, heavily against Bruce’s mouth, “But now you’re my little slut.”

The whine spills from Bruce’s mouth and Jerome surges against him, his cock pressing incessantly into Bruce’s hip. 

“That’s right, Bruce.” His one hand pets Bruce’s hair and the other trails down to splay out against the bare skin of his back. Bruce is getting so caught up in the way Jerome keeps kissing him that he almost forgets just how easy it would be for someone to see him like this, but what if Tommy saw him? What if Tommy saw that Bruce was getting everything that he needed from someone else? What if the Maniax saw just how much their illustrious leader evidently wanted to bend Bruce over the bar? There was already one here who absolutely couldn’t be enough of an idiot to not realize what was going on right beside him even if he wasn’t looking. “Just accept it, good boy.”

Bruce shudders, kissing back with a slick, open mouth. Jerome chuckles under his breath, far too pleased with himself, and Bruce digs his nails into Jerome’s scalp and bites his lower lip hard.

Jerome holds him close, as if he’d been waiting for this since the maze, since their reunion, since their first meeting, and something hot and sick twists inside of Bruce as he swallows the blood in his mouth. 

He’s ready to lose himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3

Jerome’s lip stings like a bitch, but the slight discomfort isn’t nearly enough to keep him from kissing Bruce with the kind of zeal that practically _screams_ that he’s making up for lost time.

Bruce is warm and soft under his hands. Glimmering and golden like some kind of divinity. Unbearably hot in a blood-red top that plunges so low on his flat chest that Jerome could easily spot the darker skin of his areola peeking out from behind fabric, as if he’s a precious little boy who's been playing dress-up with his skanky older sister’s clubbing clothes. Also, equally as important, Jerome can feel Bruce’s cock starting to get hard as he rocks against Jerome’s thigh like he’s absolutely, utterly desperate for Jerome to touch him in all sorts of fun, forbidden places.

And isn’t that just _so_ thrilling?

They’re not quite making a scene yet. This is a club full of young, drunk, horny people after all, and there are couples making out everywhere, plus Carl is doing a great job of both giving them cover and keeping his eyes firmly fixed away, which is the smartest thing that he’d ever done without Jerome having to explicitly order it. Still, Jerome’s got an itch that he wants scratched until its raw and bloody, and even though Bruce is all sweetly responsive right now he wonders if he’ll clamp up if Jerome starts taking this out of simple making-out territory and into the realm of _someone’s gotta have orgasms and it may as well be us_.

Maybe. Maybe not. Bruce had seemed like he was going to be more than happy riding that pretty-boy’s thigh out on the dance floor, so fully surrounded by people that Jerome had hardly been able to make him out through the crowd. Thinking about that, Bruce getting all hot and heavy with someone that wasn’t _him_ , is almost enough to make him snarl. Jerome had always been territorial when it came to his things.

His favourite volunteer. His little conquistador. His good boy. His little slut. 

If that fuck out on the dance floor was the reason why Bruce had a faded bruise around his eye Jerome really was going to kill him. Slowly. Whether Bruce was okay with it or not. 

So what if Jerome had hurt Bruce before? So what if he’d tried to kill him a few times? Bruce had more than paid him back for it in that maze of mirrors, punching Jerome’s aching, bleeding face until the skin was only hanging on by a handful of warped staples. Now _that_ had been a truly eye-opening experience. The kitten had claws. The lamb was a wolf. The Bruce Wayne that had once shaken like a leaf in Jerome’s arms was suddenly a force of nature. Laid out underneath of him, breathless and excited, Jerome’s fuzzy thought processes had shifted endlessly between _hurt, fuck, kidnap, praise, humiliate, kiss_ ; each option making his sick, twisted heart race in his chest, at least until Bruce had up and left him behind like Jerome wasn’t anything more than a one night stand. He hadn’t even looked back, not until Jerome had followed him out with a mirror shard in his hand and a myriad of half-formed ideas in his head only to end up falling short and flat on his back.

And so what if he’d still thought about killing Bruce while he was locked up in Arkham? What else was a heart-broken guy like him supposed to do but plot revenge and masturbate to utterly filthy fantasies? Like slathering a naked Bruce in honey, Jerome’s sticky-sweet hands lingering on all those special, sensitive places that would make Bruce quiver, and giving him a little kiss before telling him that he could beg for his life if he wanted. Jerome was versatile, he was allowed to want to do multiple gross things to and with the literal boy of his dreams who’d walked away from him as if their time together in the maze hadn’t been a revelation for him, as well. 

Other people, though? Not allowed.

Only he should be able to hurt Bruce in all of the best and worst ways, and touch him until he was either crying for more or crying because it was too much, and kiss him so nicely that he melted, and call him special little pet-names to watch him go red in the face. Only he should be able to kill the boy who had once held the possible ending to Jerome’s life in his brutal, bloody hands, just as Jerome had held the possible ending to his. But, like he’d said to Bruce earlier, his desire to figure out fun new ways to murder him had all but disintegrated upon actually seeing him in the flesh again. 

Why would Jerome _kill_ when instead he could _keep?_

His hand on Bruce’s back slips lower, cupping his ass and forcing them even closer together. Bruce gasps against his mouth, precious little thing, as if he’s not used to something like this even though Jerome knows otherwise. 

“Has your boyfriend not been treating you right?” Jerome needles before dragging his tongue up Bruce’s cheek, lapping away the blood that he’d left there with his bitten hand. “Is that why you’re so needy?”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Bruce’s nails dig into his scalp again, ready to tear into him. It makes Jerome’s heart skip. “And I’m not needy.”

Ha, what an awful liar. Jerome will forgive him for it since he’s so cute.

And also because he’ll make him eat those words, later.

“You get that close to strange boys in clubs?” His hand slides up, but only so that it can slip underneath the waistband of Bruce’s pants. “And here I thought we had something special, you and me.” The material doesn’t have enough slack for him to shove his whole hand inside, but he does manage to drag two fingers down along Bruce’s cleft. Bruce jerks at the touch even though Jerome can’t reach down far enough to even trace over his hole, let alone attempt to press inside of it. 

Interesting. 

“Maybe I just have a thing for guys—” He’s trying to mask the tremor in his voice, but Jerome hears it. Jerome luxuriates in it. Jerome is pretty certain that Bruce hasn’t had his cherry properly popped which means that _he_ gets to do it. “—who I’ve beaten the shit out of.”

“Just how many boys have you been flirting with behind my back?” Honestly. Was Jerome going to have to carve his name into Bruce to remind him who he belonged to? Or maybe he’d give him a cute little collar with a heart shaped tag that said _Darlin'_ on one side and _Jerome Valeska’s_ on the other.

Maybe both. The scar to remind Bruce. The collar to remind everyone else. 

“Does it really matter?” Bruce leans in, pressing sweet little kisses at the corners of Jerome’s mouth before flicking his tongue against Jerome’s teeth and upper lip. His eyelashes flutter, which Jerome thinks he might be doing on purpose, but goddamn if those doe-eyes of his didn’t make him seem like he was still the sweetest boy that Jerome had ever laid his eyes on. “I thought that I was yours, now.”

“Oh _darlin’_ , you are.” And Bruce might be under the impression that Jerome meant that in a one-night-only kind of way, but he’d figure out soon enough that Jerome really meant it in a till-death-do-us-part kind of way. He’s not going to let Bruce slip through his fingers and leave him behind a second time. “I’m not going to let you forget it, not even if it means I have to fuck you right here.” Bruce’s kisses pause but his hips don’t stop, sawing against Jerome like he really could get off just from frotting against his thigh. Fuck. He was such a hot, needy little thing. “I’d pull down your pants and sit you right on my cock,” he breathes, watching Bruce’s face flush avidly. “Fold my coat around you to make sure no one could actually see your pretty exposed dick, but anyone who looked over would know exactly what was going on when they saw the way you moved up and down in my lap. I’d play with your precious, weeping slit and pull that shirt a whole centimeter lower so that I could pinch and pull your bare nipples right out in the open where anyone could watch.” Bruce’s hands fist so tightly in his hair that it stings. “You into that, baby? Letting people see just how much of a slut you are for me?”

“No,” Bruce answers hoarsely, but his thighs are clamping on either side of Jerome’s leg, the rutting of his hips becoming shallower, faster. “That sounds mortifying.”

“Really?” Jerome leans in, grazing his teeth against the shell of Bruce’s ear. “We’re halfway there already and you seem to be enjoying yourself. Are you gonna cum in your pants in public while I talk about fucking you in public?”

A strangled little kitten whine—a sound that Bruce was obviously trying to hold back, naughty boy—forces its way out of Bruce’s swollen, kiss-bruised mouth.

“I won’t if you—if you—”

“If I what, Bruce? You’re the one shamelessly humping my leg. I’m barely doing anything.”

Bruce shudders, panting against Jerome’s mouth and looking up at him through the fan of his dark lashes. He’s such a sight to behold, even better than Jerome’s fantasized about. One of his hands untangles itself from Jerome’s hair to grab at his forearm, pulling Jerome’s hand away from his ass.

“I won’t if you take me somewhere—” Bruce grabs his wrist, guides his hand upward, nips at Jerome’s fingertips in a way that’s playful. “—so that I can cum while I’m sucking your cock.”

_Goddamn._

“Are you gonna touch yourself while you go down on me,” Jerome rasps, “or does sucking cock get you off?”

Bruce laps his tongue along the pads of two of Jerome’s fingers. Little _tease_. “Where’s the fun in telling you?” He peers up at Jerome, a little smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. “Don’t you like surprises?”

“It depends on the surprise.” 

Bruce’s lips twitch as if he’s actually on the verge of smiling.

Then he puckers his lips and delicately spits onto the fingers that he’d dragged his tongue against, his warm saliva thickly coating Jerome’s fingertips as if in a wordless request for Jerome to put them to work somewhere that would need the extra slick. It’s even hotter than when he spat in Jerome’s face, because this time it’s accompanied by an expectant look that Jerome absolutely cannot ignore.

“Fine, I can play nice and give you what you want.” He says, though he also yanks Bruce’s shirt down lower and pinches one of his nipples hard with newly-wet fingers. Bruce squeals, the loudest sound he’s made since they started getting all over each other, and he actually slaps a hand over his mouth in obvious embarrassment afterwards, his cheeks blooming like roses. 

The bartender is definitely staring at them, now, and few people previously hidden behind Carl have actually craned their necks to get a glimpse of what’s going on. Bruce is all wide-eyed and mortified, so ashamed of calling so much attention to himself, so fucking _adorable_.

“Tits out is a good look for you,” Jerome croons with a leer just to watch Bruce flounder in even more feelings of indignation. He flicks the spit-slick nipple, cruel and playful and adoring all at once. “I’ll dress you like this more often.”

And before Bruce can think too deeply on that and take it as some kind of sign that he might want to start running Jerome hustles him away from the bar.

The bathrooms are even more dimly lit than the dance floor, and so close to speakers that Jerome can feel the vibration of the bass like it’s coming from inside of him, like his heart is pounding in some irregular, pulsating rhythm. Before Jerome even hides them away in the closest stall Bruce has turned around in his arms to start kissing him again, obviously not so disapproving of the location that he’s going to try and whine for Jerome to take them somewhere more private. Nowhere in here is private, and Jerome’s too impatient to take them somewhere else, and if he kills too many people to clear out a space the cops might get called and Bruce’ll get snatched out of his hands all over again to be swaddled in a shock-blanket and gently asked where the bad man touched him. 

“Not your first time getting off in a bathroom, huh?” He can barely hear his own voice over the rumbling bass as he shuts and bolts the door behind them. “Look at you, growing up while I was locked away. I never would have guessed you’d turn out like this.” Not that he isn’t delighted by it, obviously. If Bruce _hadn’t_ turned out like this then he probably wouldn’t even have been here at all, and then what would Jerome be doing except looking for a replacement for the night which could never match up to the real thing?

Dark hair and soft skin and a pretty face didn’t mean much unless they belonged to someone who was quick-witted and ruthless, someone who was able to carry themselves with grace under pressure. First name: Bruce. Last name: Wayne. 

Or Valeska, in the case of some of Jerome’s fonder fantasies where he stole Bruce away after their confrontation in the maze and turned him into his precious _boy-wife._

Bruce wraps his arms around his shoulders, eyebrows briefly furrowing.

“I deserve to have fun like a normal teenager,” he says, as if absolutely anything about him has _ever_ been normal. He presses a soft kiss to the skin of Jerome’s neck, then skims his teeth against it. “I deserve to lose myself, every now and then.”

“Lose yourself, hmm?”

If he wanted to disappear so badly then Jerome would make it real, _real_ easy for him. 

“Yeah,” Bruce murmurs against the skin of his neck. “Lose myself, and forget. You’ll help me with that, won’t you?”

“Of course, darlin’.” His hands skim down Bruce’s back to toy with the little bow that’s barely doing its job of keeping his shirt on. “What are mortal enemies—” Or star-crossed lovers. Same difference, really. “—for, if not to make everything else fade away?” 

Bruce whispers something incomprehensible against him, but that must have been the right thing to say because his hands race over Jerome’s shoulders and down his chest to start undoing his belt. Sooner or later they were going to have to have a little _chat_ about what the fuck had been going on while Jerome was stuck in Arkham because he sure is getting the feeling that he’s missed out on a lot.

Later, he thinks distantly as Bruce sinks to his knees, hands reaching into Jerome’s undone pants, definitely later. 

Bruce glimpses up at him through fluttering, dark lashes as he opens his mouth, his soft pink tongue sliding out to rest over his lower lip. He drags it slowly against the tip of Jerome’s cock, steadily watching Jerome for a reaction.

Then saliva drools out of his mouth, slicking the head in a mimicry of when he’d spat on Jerome’s fingers. 

Jerome can’t quite stop himself from rocking his hips forward, the wet head of his dick briefly catching at the corner of Bruce’s puckered mouth before sliding along his cheek. Bruce lays a hand against him, keeping him there, and turns his face to press a sweet little baby-doll kiss along the shaft, still looking up at him, like he’s trying to figure out what makes Jerome tick.

“Come on, Bruce.” He lays a hand in Bruce’s hair, petting at it in the way that his boy seemed to like so much. “Good boys don’t leave people waiting. You’re still a good boy, aren’t you?”

Bruce, flushing and glimmering in the faint light like some kind of waking wet-dream, grabs the base of Jerome’s cock with his hand and sucks the head into his soft mouth.

“That’s it,” Jerome praises, other hand reaching down to wind Bruce’s curls between his fingers. “I knew you were my good boy.” Bruce’s eyes flutter shut as he takes more of Jerome into his mouth, dragging his tongue against the underside. “Are you gonna swallow my cum just like you swallowed my spit?” He can’t hear it but he can _feel_ Bruce whine around his dick. “You will, won’t you? You’re practically gagging for it.” He leans his weight more fully against the solid wall behind him, sinking down a few inches, watching Bruce follow the progress without taking his mouth off of him. “Do you like letting people use your mouth?”

Bruce’s eyes flick open, and he draws back to press a kiss to Jerome’s slit.

“Only if they’re guys who I’ve beaten the shit out of,” he answers, and Jerome’s fingers twist tighter in his hair.

“We’re going to have to put a stop to that kind of reckless behaviour.”

“Or what?” Bruce’s gaze is piercing. _Daring._ “You’ll kill me?”

Ha. As if death was an option now for Bruce to get out of this.

“No, or I’ll bend you over my knee and spank you.”

Bruce’s eyes briefly go wide, then he follows the pointed nudging of Jerome’s insistent hands and gets his mouth on him again, even more eager than before, which leaves Jerome kind of breathless with the idea that maybe he should do that, anyways. A little bit of punishment for Bruce going out to have his needs met elsewhere. Oh, he’d make it sting just right and plant sharp hand-prints all over Bruce until his entire ass was pink, and once his eyes were glossy and dripping he’d ply Bruce with kisses.

Bruce still isn’t touching himself with the hand that’s not on Jerome’s dick, instead it’s settled behind one of Jerome’s calves, grabbing onto him in a way that seems desperate, longing.

Jerome shifts his weight more fully onto one foot as he slides the other forward, nudging into the space between Bruce’s thighs. His knee bumps against Bruce’s chest and he looks up, hazy-eyed and curious, as Jerome lifts his foot so that he can press the toe of his boot against Bruce’s dick. It’s not perfect positioning by any means but Bruce jerks at the touch before moaning around him, then his hips start to work against Jerome’s boot in the same way they’d been sawing against his thigh.

“That’s right, come on,” Jerome says, probably too lowly for Bruce to make out. “Look at you, so turned on from getting on your knees for me, grinding against my shoe because you’re just so desperate to have me between your legs.” His hands curl tighter in Bruce’s hair and pull him even closer. Bruce’s fingers dig into his calf. Bruce’s hips shudder and jerk unsteadily. Bruce is looking up at him like he’d do anything that Jerome wanted, and Jerome feels himself start to burn white-hot. “My little slut, my precious good boy. I’m gonna fill you up, make you feel so nice and warm inside,” he coos, raising his voice loud enough for Bruce to hear. “You’re—” His breath catches, an electric current running up his spine as Bruce, without prompting, takes him deep enough that he has to pull back, choking on his own spit and Jerome’s precum, before delving in again. “You’re absolutely perfect, baby,” he manages, voice starting to waver as his toes begin to curl. “I’m gonna give you everything you need,” he promises, “everything you deserve.” He loosens the grip of one hand so that he can briefly, shakily, pet Bruce’s soft curls, and then Bruce whines around his dick again.

He feels himself start to unravel and he winds his fists even tighter in Bruce’s hair as he unsteadily rocks as deeply into his pretty, perfect mouth as he can. Jerome pants and moans, no words left in his head to spill into the air between them as Bruce devotedly swallows his cum while desperately continuing to rut against Jerome’s boot until his thighs clamp around it and his whole body goes tense. He presses both hands against the back of Jerome’s calf, then, keeping him in place as he rests his forehead against Jerome’s hip and rides out his own orgasm until he eventually slows to a stop, trembling and gasping against Jerome’s thigh.

Jerome’s hands loosen their hold of dark curls.

He pets Bruce’s hair, stupidly fond, and Bruce nuzzles his face further into his pant leg as if he’s starved for gentle handling. 

“You sure know how to show a man a good time,” he offers, thoughts still a little too frazzled to string together anything more clever to say. “Here, back up a little, baby.” Bruce shifts back and Jerome couches down, taking Bruce’s face in his hands. “That’s it.” He’s such a pretty picture. Jerome can’t wait to find out if he always looks like this in the aftermath of an orgasm. 

Jerome darts in to kiss him. It's their most chaste kiss of the night, really, but Bruce stares at him afterwards as if Jerome has done something striking. Jerome’s thumbs graze over his warm cheeks and wet mouth, trying not to preen too obviously at the way Bruce seems to be pressing into the touch of his hands. 

“Did that pretty boy whose ass you kicked never kiss you after you went down on him or something?”

“No,” Bruce answers, voice a little raspy. _Fuck_ , the _things_ Jerome is going to do to him. “He never did.”

“What a fucking loser.” Jerome kisses him again, licking into Bruce's mouth and feeling him melt, his hands lifting up to tenderly run through Jerome’s hair. Jerome’s not entirely used to this softness, but maybe he could acclimatize to it. He breaks the kiss and presses their foreheads together. It’s practically romantic. “Do you still feel like losing yourself, darlin’?”

Bruce blinks at him, looking over Jerome’s expression as if trying to find some kind of hidden trap. Considering their history Jerome isn’t overly insulted by the suspicion. 

“I always do, these days,” he eventually answers. “Why?”

“Do you want to lose yourself with me?” He ruffles Bruce’s hair, basking in the freedom to do so. “Lose yourself, and forget. I can help you with that. It’s practically my second life’s calling.”

Bruce’s lips twitch, the beginnings and ends of a smile, but he doesn’t answer. Jerome gentles his caresses even more.

“What’s keeping you tied to one spot, huh?” His voice is soft, but already he’s getting himself ready for the likely possibility that Bruce will turn him down. He’s not letting Bruce leave him behind like a one night stand again, and this time around he’s not delirious with pain and blood-loss so he’ll actually be able to do something about it if he tries. “What’s waiting outside for you that's so important?”

“Nothing,” Bruce says, eyes starting to go glossy. “Nothing, and no one.”

Aw, poor thing. So lonely.

So _vulnerable._

“Well, see, that’s where you’re wrong.” Jerome presses a lingering kiss to the corner of one teary eye before leaning in, so close that he can’t help but remember the night the lights when out, standing with Bruce in the firelight, telling this clever, fearless boy that his point was valid. Can’t help but remember being up on a stage with a trembling sacrificial lamb held tightly in his arms, whispering to him about boosting their ratings. “Because I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve been waiting for you for a _long_ time. And sure, maybe some of that time was spent thinking I was going to kill you, but I know there was at least a small fraction of your life where you were waiting to kill me, too, so I think we’re even.”

Bruce tenses at the mention of what he’d almost done in the maze, but he doesn’t try to break free from Jerome’s arms.

“C’mon,” he gently urges. “Come away with me. I’ll make sure you won’t regret it, darlin’.” 

Bruce is silent for a long moment and Jerome’s fingers twitch, ready to grab, to pull, to cover a screaming mouth.

And then he sinks his weight against Jerome in benevolent acceptance.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay.”

Jerome hides his wide, beaming grin by pressing a kiss into Bruce’s hair.

“We’ll make a good team, you and me,” he says lowly.

And he means it now more than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I invoking the incredible energy of Harley!Bruce? Yes.

**Author's Note:**

> Jerome, immediately after Bruce spits in his face: Well, now I'm just going to have to _marry you._


End file.
